The thought that "we are what we ride" popped into my head Tuesday when coming home from picking up some English muffins while on a 40-mile evening ride. Why go to the Daily Mart at the end of the road, just one mile away, when an hour spent on a mild evening looping through Litchfield, Bantam, New Preston, Washington Depot, Morris, back to the IGA Supermarket in Bantam and then home was possible?

As I stowed the muffins in a bag attached to my bike's rear rack, numerous motorcycles rolled by on Route 202. There were cruisers and sport bikes, individual riders and small groups. Everyone was partaking of the pleasant spring weather. I mounted my yellow 2008 Suzuki DL650 V-Strom and headed east, enjoying the bike's pep and handling, while begrudgingly agreeing with the assessment of some friends that a V-Strom has no "soul."

So why did I buy it used last August? Low mileage and price were allures. The fact that repairing the V-Strom's predecessor would have been exorbitant factored into the decision. Also, as a motojournalist, I wanted to learn first-hand whether the V-Strom's reputation as an all-around machine was true. That has been verified. The only downside to the "Wee-Strom" - there's a larger 1,000cc version as well - has been enduring frequent good-natured ribbing from Tom Caliolo of Waterbury, the beefy, cigar-smoking owner of a 2300cc Triumph Rocket III.

It was while rounding the curve at La Cupola Ristorante & Inn that the "we are what we ride" thought intruded. Why had I really bought the bike? Might it really be because it's all the things that I'm not but cling to the notion that I still am - thin, colorful and full of energy? (Hey, my 60th birthday is four months away.)

That instantly got me thinking of why so many of riders worship Harley-Davidsons? Is it primarily because these riders appreciate "old school" and want to show their patriotism by buying American?

You can't argue with that. Or are they lemmings who have bought into a mystique carefully-crafted by the manufacturer over decades?

If any Harley rider stereotype is true, does this automatically make BMW riders snobs or all crotch rocket-riders maniacs? So often stereotypes are not true, and I suspect that most of us make our motorcycle purchases based on a variety of factors: whim, the size of the bank account, peer pressure, image, planned usage.. It might even be momentary stupidity, and I plead guilty to that charge in a couple of occasions.

Any rider who is truly honest with himself (or herself) will admit that the mental picture that they have of how they look while seated on a bike plays a big part in their satisfaction with that bike. Some riders look like they belong on their bikes. Caliolo would look out of place on anything but his muscular Rocket III.

On the outbound leg of my ride, I'd been passed by two "kids" on sport bikes. From a quick glance, one of the bikes looked to be a customized Kawasaki ZX-14R. It was bright green with an extended swing-arm. I couldn't tell the model precisely because they passed me on Route 118 at a speed that was probably much closer to 90 miles per hour than the posted speed limited.

On the way home, having connected to Route 118, I spotted them again. They were stopped at the intersection of Route 254. We acknowledged each other as I rode by. Soon, their headlights appeared in my left side mirror. Once again, they streaked up from behind, this time passing me on a double-yellow line. They rode away in single file, not in a much safer staggered formation. I knew what their bikes said about them: Young, bulletproof, and dangerous to motorists and other riders alike.

Maybe it's because it's the start of the riding season, but I've already noticed a lot of excessively risky or downright bad riding. Two weeks ago, I was in my pickup heading northbound on Route 222 in Harwinton, approaching the stop sign where the road dead ends at Route 118. I was braking to halt at the stop line when three guys on heavy cruisers, who were turning left to head south toward Thomaston, cut the corner and rode directly across my lane. I jammed on the brakes and gave them a dirty look. Had the window not been up, I would have screamed.

While in many cases it may be true that "we are what we ride," riding in a manner that courts catastrophe gives all riders a bad name. Note to Mr. Caliolo: Tom, I actually do enjoying being a sluggish bear atop a buzzing bumble bee. But, please, don't hand me a mirror.

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In the next two years, I'll be getting my breasts screened about as frequently as some people change their oil. I have dense breasts, and, in Connecticut, that means my doctor must inform me of that condition and suggest I get an ultrasound.